Real Families: Meditations on family life

It was a long-ago summer day, a day made for going without shoes. I was barefoot in the back yard with a bunch of friends, playing Freeze Tag—if you are tagged, you are frozen in position until someone comes along and tags you free. As this game required no particular skill in hitting or catching balls and did not require being the fastest or the strongest, I actually enjoyed playing it. That is, until the bee. A barefoot game of Freeze Tag in a backyard full of clover led to my foot landing on an unsuspecting bee, which immediately protested, stinging me and ending my afternoon fun.

The bee was doing what bees do and responding as bees respond upon the interruption. The actual sting was not so bad, but my body’s reaction was severe, and I learned that I should avoid bee stings.

Human bodies are marvelous; they are at once capable in astonishing ways of carrying on any number of unseen, necessary functions for life. They can be strong and powerful, yet they are fragile. Bodies move and breathe and bend and do. Bodies tire and weaken and sicken and die. There is no guarantee about what the package one is given will be able to do. We have a modicum of control but not complete control. Somewhere in the space between, we do the best we can.

At either end of the life’s spectrum—tiny, newborn flesh or older, brittle bones covered with papery skin—and at all the points in between we humans and other animals contain the possibility of weakness and the eventuality of death. I remember holding each of my babies for the first time and feeling so adequate about the notion of my responsibility to care and protect these tiny beings.

Even with growing experience and confidence, that sense of awe, in the complete sense of the word, remained. We are encased in fragile flesh—flesh that is vulnerable to bees and more. This is life—we are born, and we will surely die.

God walks that path with us. The mystery and splendor of the incarnation is wrapped up in this reality. The Word became flesh. The Word became flesh and dwelt among humanity—humanity that sweats, weeps and bleeds.

Jesus took on the fragility and vulnerability of a human body. That seems to me to be as important as remembering Jesus as wise, compassionate and bearing a certain power and strength. Perhaps it is irreverent, but I think it worth pondering that Jesus took on the very inconvenience of humanity. How much more efficient might ministry be if one did not have to eat and sleep and take care of bug bites and bee stings?

Recently in Bible class, my students and I watched a movie that depicted the life, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus. Part of our purpose was to identify and compare narrative lenses—what episodes are emphasized and how they compare with the emphases of the Gospel writers. I was captivated by a scene during the last few minutes of the movie as Jesus—resurrected, the stone rolled away, holes in his wrists and feet, invites a grieving, disbelieving Thomas to touch the wounded flesh, acknowledge the scars and believe. The incarnation itself presents a lens through which we come to know and understand and believe.

The life of Jesus tells us that our flesh, vulnerable as it may be, is worth tending to. Our bodies, though they may confuse and dismay us at times, are valuable and honorable. All bodies, contrary to some conventional wisdoms, no matter their size, shape, color, gender, ability (and so on and so on) are gifts of and gifted by the Creator. And the Creator knows intimately the strengths and vulnerabilities of these bodies, because Jesus has worn our flesh.

Regina Shands Stoltzfus is working on a doctorate in theology and ethics at Chicago Theological Seminary.